Porn Battle X fics!
Oh, look. Porn in various fandoms. A couple hundred words each are easy enough to write after Maddy goes to bed. :)
Generic Disclaimer: These are NOT my characters, and they're all over the age of consent. And oh, look, they're all consenting, too. (The BSG one could be dubcon, tho...)
I apologize in advance for the smart quotes... The new version of Gdocs automatically turns them on and I can't turn them off. And it's a pain in the ass to change every single quote and apostrophe. I'm using the old version for future fics, not to worry. Anywho, oOn to the porn. :D
“Caramel.” Fringe, Walter Bishop/Astrid Farnsworth, taste
Astrid never knew what to expect going into the lab, and that was part of the fun with working in Fringe Division. She had studied a lot of different things, and knew people with various areas of expertise. Everyone had told her that she was wasting her time, but apparently, her voracious consumption of eclectic information had paid off.
Today, something was cooking over a bunsen burner. Walter often had odd things over a burner, and liked to put various concoctions together. His enjoyment of all drugs was probably part of his charm, even if sometimes he was completely off his rocker. Walter looked up as Astrid came into the lab and grinned. “Astro! Just the girl I wanted to see!”
“Astrid,” she said for the thousandth time. As always, her words slid right past Walter’s consciousness into some kind of ether. She took off her coat and gloves, then carefully unwound her scarf. Walter was bouncing around from one part of the lab bench to the other, carefully monitoring the concoction over the bunsen burner. “What are you making?”
“My own special blend of caramel.” Walter beamed at her as he pulled out a tray with dozens of tiny oddly shaped things on it. “Here. I thought you might like it, Aster. They’re sweet, but not too sweet. Just like you.”
He didn’t mean anything by it, of course. He couldn’t. He was just being Walter, and didn’t realize he was even complimenting her.
But his hand lingered over hers just a fraction too long as he was passing her the candy. His eyes lingered on her mouth and tongue as she tasted the candy, sweet with just a little bit of an edge to it. He looked almost anxious, waiting on her response to his efforts. “Does it taste good?” he asked, leaning in close. “I’d imagine it tastes like you. If you were a candy. But you’re not, Astrid, I know that,” he said hastily. Almost as if he had just realized he was standing too close, he returned to his bunsen burners. “I know things. I know a lot of things, and most of them even make sense, you know.”
Astrid reached out and touched his arm gently. “I know, Walter. You’re a good man.”
Something in his expression broke. “No, I’m not.” He turned away and took up one of his caramels. “But this! This is good. Sweet, but not too sweet. Not so saccharine that your teeth would rot, just the thing to chew on and suck on while you’re thinking. I like sucking on things,” he said absently, adjusting the flame beneath one bubbling beaker. “It’s calming.”
“Walter?” Astrid asked, coming closer. “Are you all right?”
He looked at her with a blank expression. “I like you, Astrid. I do. You’re a sweet girl. Rather like these caramels, don’t you think?”
Astrid closed her hand over Walters, and he squeezed her hand tightly. “And what kind of candy would you be? What taste would you have?”
He gave her a naughty grin. “Want to find out?”
Laughing, Astrid edged closer. Her heart was pounding; he couldn’t possibly mean it that way, could he? “Maybe I do.”
Their kiss was soft and tentative, more of an exploration to see if either of them meant to take this past subtle flirtation. When Astrid pulled back, Walter had a goofy grin on his face. “You do taste like caramel. I like that.”
“I don’t think I caught what you taste like,” she replied, a slow grin on her face. “Maybe I need to try again. You know, experiment a bit.”
“Oh. I like experimentation. You never know what the outcome is going to be.”
“Exactly.”
Hours later, Astrid decided that Walter tasted like dark chocolate.
“Along the Path.” Merlin, Lancelot/Morgana, skin, moonlight
Morgana wandered away from Morgause’s camp, wondeing if she had made a mistake. The forests were thick and quiet around her, the darkness settling into the sky as the moon was high and full overhead. The animals were all silent as she walked through the forest, which had to be a bad sign.
She was seized from behind, a dagger at her throat. Morgana could feel the magic rise within her, knew that there could be wind and fire and pain if she merely let the thought go. That would make her everything that Uther hated about magic, would make her the very thing that he was so very afraid of.
The breath at her ear was ragged, the hands holding her still like iron. “Give me your purse, and I’ll spare your life.”
The voice was familiar, and it took a moment for Morgana to place it. In her hesitation, his grip tightened on her arms, and the blade’s point pressed into her neck. It was just hard enough to make a drop of blood well to the surface. “Is this what they turned you into, Lancelot? You were a worthy knight for Arthur.”
He let her go, spinning her out and away from him. “What?” he hissed, reacting as if burned.
Morgana touched her hand to her neck, the blood smearing across her fingertips. In a flash of gold, it was gone and her wound was sealed. “I remember you,” she said, moving to lower the hood of her cloak. “I remember you very well.”
Lancelot saw her, his face ashen. “Lady Morgana.”
She gave a brisk shake of her head. “Just Morgana now. I’ve fled Camelot.” Her chin lifted a notch at his stunned surprise. “I’m an enemy of Camelot, just as you are.”
“I am not--”
“Aren’t you?” she challenged. “What would the knights do if they saw you like this? You know what they would do to a highwayman.”
Lancelot’s shoulders dropped, but Morgana had no pleasure in it. She approached him slowly; he was still armed, and she wasn’t stupid. The first thing she did was touch his hand, her eyes locked to his, and slowly took the dagger away from him. She held it out to him, holding the blade so that he could take it by the hilt. It was a sign of trust and respect, and she watched as Lancelot warily took the dagger back from her. “What do you want, Morgana?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. She had thought she wanted the downfall of Camelot. She had thought she hated Uther for his hypocrisy. She had thought she wanted a home to live in that would be without fear. She didn’t know what place that would be, however, and the realization left her cold and empty inside. Her dreams carried thousands of different possible futures, and they slipped through her fingers once she woke. She couldn’t choose one to follow, couldn’t ensure that she would even survive.
His eyes raked over her face as he sheathed his dagger. He touched the spot that had been bleeding at her throat. “I shouldn’t have done that, milady.”
“I’m no longer a lady of the court,” she reminded him.
“You will always be a lady,” Lancelot answered, his other hand moving her cloak aside. “Whether this be velvet or sacking, I know you will always be a fine woman. Just as I am always a servant.”
Morgana edged closer to him, a chill rolling through her limbs. “You are more than that. Servants are not always noble.”
“Nay, I’m no noble. If you knew my thoughts...” He shook his head ruefully and let his hands fall to his sides. “No, milady. I am no nobleman.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “It’s a good thing I don’t want a nobleman.”
The wonder in his gaze didn’t mask the open appreciation of her beauty. He had always cared for Gwen, but he knew a fair face when he saw it. Morgana didn’t need adoration. She needed to feel and she needed to belong, if only for a little while.
He pressed her against a tree, his mouth falling onto hers. One hand was at her hips, pulling them tight to his, the other was at the nape of her neck. Good God, the man could kiss like sin, his lips urging hers to part so his tongue could explore her mouth. Morgana wound her arms around his shoulders and opened her mouth wider beneath his. There was passion in his kiss, a heady fervor that was almost like worship. Lancelot moved to press his lips to her neck, and kissed a trail down to her bodice. His hands were at the laces, undoing them as best as he could to free her breasts. Once they were free, he suckled one and pulled lightly at the other, making Morgana gasp. It was pleasure and a fierce need that shot through her, a distinct feeling that there was more and she had to have it.
Lancelot lifted her skirts and moved to place his head between her thighs. He licked the skin above her silken stockings, then right to where the ache had settled between her legs. Morgana gasped at the feel of his mouth there, at the rush in her veins she had never felt before. She grasped her skirts as Lancelot moved to take hold of her hips for balance. He went to work in earnest, drawing out gasps and moans. Morgana felt like a coiled spring, as if he was winding her tight and tighter and tighter still. Her hips tilted of their own accord, and her back arched at a particularly sensitive lick against her center. Her breasts jutted out of her bodice into the cool night air, nipples taut and aching. When Lancelot slid a finger inside of her, it was enough to send her careening over an edge she hadn’t known existed. The coiling burst apart, and she cried out in ecstasy.
Lancelot rose from his knees, catching Morgana’s limp form. “Morgana,” he murmured, his body pressed to hers. “This is as far as I can go. You’re but a maiden.”
She lifted her head with difficulty and grasped hold of his shirt. “Then make me a woman.”
Against his better judgment, Lancelot unlaced her dress, letting it fall from her shoulders to puddle at her feet. The shift was next, so that she stood there clad in only the silken stockings at her legs and the garters to hold them up. Reverently, Lancelot removed them, his lips following the trails his fingers made. At her breathless request, Lancelot stripped his own clothing, leaving them both skyclad in the middle of the forest. He laid her down over her velvet cloak, showering her face with kisses and touching her everywhere. Just when she could stand it no longer, he positioned himself over her. “I should stop,” he said, almost begging her to say no.
Morgana pulled him down, muffling her cry of pain. “Don’t you dare,” she ordered in a strangled voice. “Give me everything. Spare me nothing.”
He moved over her and within her, long, deep strokes that stretched and filled her. It hurt in some places, not in others. It was over far too soon, and Morgana lay beneath Lancelot, looking up at the moon. He tried to apologize for her pain, but she wouldn’t have it. She held his hand tightly and kissed the rough knuckles. “This was a gift you gave me.” She smiled at his confused look. “I hadn’t thought this could be beautiful, but now I know it can be.” Morgana pressed a kiss to his lips. “I would be honored if you would stay with me.”
Even as he shook his head, Morgana had known he would not stay with her. He was trying to follow a path of redemption, however rocky the road and deviations in the path. She would have to find her own way.
“Stranger In The Mirror.” Battlestar Galactica (2003), Kara/Leoben, shame, force
He pushed her face down onto the bed he made her share. “Kara,” Leoben said, disappointment coloring his voice. “You know I always come back to you.” He was straddling her prone form, his hands over hers on either side of her head. “Or maybe this is how you like it? This is how you can tell yourself it’s rape? That you’re not asking for it? That you don’t beg me for it?” Leoben leaned down close to her ear, his breath warm and moist. Kara knew that he was a Cylon, that he was nothing more than a machine, but he always felt anything but metallic.
“Get off of me,” she ground out, eyes shut tight. She wanted to think of Sam or Lee or even Zach, but Gods knew it was hard to do. Leoben was right above her, pressed into her, and she was clad in thin fabric that was easy to rip off. He had done it before and would likely do so again.
Leoben licked the shell of her ear, then breathed over the damp spot. She shivered; it was one of her erogenous zones. He had thoroughly mapped them out soon after taking her to this Godsforsaken place. Kara used to boast she had no shame, but that had been easy on the Galactica. Starbuck wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
But here, she was just Kara. And Kara was frightened.
“Kara,” he crooned, lips by her ear. “We belong together. I’ve seen it, and you know it to be true. We belong together, you and I. It happened before, and it will again.” Leoben let go of her hands and trailed them along her arms. She shivered as his hands slipped beneath the thin shirt she was wearing. He lifted it toward her shoulders, and then bent his head to lick a trail along her spine. “I take care of you. I love you. I shelter you. I forgive you.” He pressed his lips along the base of her spine as she let out a choked sob. Leoben hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts and edged them down her hips. “Lift up, love.” Kara obeyed, eyes still shut tight. He slid them down her legs, his mouth pressing hot and open kisses along her bared backside. Then he placed his hands at her hips so that he could lick his way back up her spine.
“I hate you,” Kara said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I frakking hate you!”
Leoben pulled her up to a sitting position, then pulled off the shirt, baring her breasts. He leveled a serene gaze at her. “I love you and I forgive you, Kara. You’re just afraid of what fate has in store for you. I will never hurt you.”
She let out a strangled noise as he bent his head to her breast and began to suckle. Her hands tightened in his hair as he slowly laid her back down on the bed. He was lying between her spread thighs, his erection separated from her wet heat by only a pair of pants. Leoben moved from one breast to the other, one hand propping himself up and the other caressing her hip. Kara cursed herself for a fool when she grasped at his shoulders, when she canted her hips up toward his and moaned. She cried out when he slid his fingers inside her, as he brought her through several climaxes before stripping and sliding into her. Leoben locked eyes with her as he moved above her, reverence and love in his gaze.
Kara closed her eyes and turned away. Even as she cried out in pleasure, she could feel herself shrivel inside. She didn’t fight him when he touched her, and he never forced her to his bed. She always came willingly, always parted her legs for him even as she cursed his name and told him she hated him. He accepted that, forgiving her every time. She hated his forgiveness, hated his touch, hated that he knew her so well. And she hated herself even more. When he left, always forgiving her, she never cried. There weren’t any tears left to shed.
“Lessons Learned.” Beauty and the Beast, Disney!Beast/Disney!Belle, erotic novels
“You like books,” the Beast said accusingly.
Belle refused to rise to the bait. “I wasn’t expecting this!” He reached for the book, but was amused when she snatched it back. “I haven’t finished reading it yet!”
The Beast moved slowly and deliberately, crowding into her space. Belle’s lips parted slightly, the novel clutched to her chest like a talisman. “Did you like what you read?”
She shivered beneath his heady gaze. “I... I’ve never... Those things,” she squeaked, a fierce blush rising along her cheeks. “I want to know more.”
The Beast plucked the book easily from her limp grasp. With his other hand, he traced the delicate curve of her shoulder. “Some things, you can’t learn from books.”
“I... I learn quickly.”
Smiling, the Beast bent his head so that he could press his lips to her forehead. “Would you like me to teach you?”
Eyes dilated, Belle could only nod. He was careful as he kissed her, as he ran his monstrous hands along the curves of her body. She trembled in his arms, but it was not fear that sang in her veins. She was a passionate woman, sheltered and pure, his hope for redemption. Her scent was tantalizing, and she didn’t know how much restraint it took to keep from ripping the dress from her body and showing her just how Beastly he could be.
But he moved slowly, slowly, caressing her flesh with hands and lips and tongue. Belle cried out at the sensation, head thrown back against the library carpet, legs splayed wide before him. His mouth had descended over her, and he was giving her such heights of sensation that she had never known before. She dug her fingers into the fur at the back of his head, crying out and nearly sobbing incoherently. “Please,” she begged, not knowing what she was begging for. “Oh, Beast, please, please,” she moaned.
His eyes were shining with lust and longing. “This cannot be undone, Belle,” he warned. But she moaned and reached for him, and he plunged deeply within her. She cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain as he moved, but then his mouth covered hers. She could taste herself on his tongue, and opened her mouth wider for him. She held onto him, fingers tangled in his fur and her thighs trembling around his hips. He made deep strokes within her, causing her to cry out into his mouth when something felt so incredibly wonderful that she was seeing stars.
“Belle,” he moaned. “I cannot... last...”
“Oh, my Beast,” Belle whimpered, hands tightening on his arms. “My Beast.”
Her voice was enough to have him come undone, flying apart at the seams and coming within her hot depths. He carefully shifted position so that he cradled her in his arms, her lithe body still wound around his. “Belle,” he moaned. “My Belle.”
She tucked her head into his chest, still panting. “I still want to finish that book.”
The Beast laughed heartily. “I’ll show you how it ends,” he promised, running his hands down her back. “For as long as you wish me to.”
Belle smiled and burrowed into his warmth. “I wish it, Beast. I wish it very much.”
“A Kiss To Build A Dream On” Sunshine - Robin McKinley, Constantine/Sunshine, kiss
“Tell me a story,” Constantine rasped.
I was tired, my voice soft and almost hoarse from talking. “I told you everything already,” I said wearily. And I’ve told everything I knew. Fairy tales, book plots, TV shows, gossip I’d picked up at Charlie’s and even how I make the cinnamon rolls every morning. I mean, my life is boring. It’s not like a baker can do fantastic things, right? I bake.
“Make up something,” he asked. His voice was low, but I could tell he was pleading with me. He was staying out of the light as best as he could, and he had said that my talking kept him sane. I didn’t want to think about what he would be like if he wasn’t.
“I... I’m not good at stories,” I said finally. “I don’t tell stories. I bake. I can recite every recipe from the shop, or how there are hot spots in the oven, how to get the rolls to stay as fluffy as they do in time for the morning rush...”
He looked up at me, and though he didn’t say anything else, I could almost feel his despair. I wanted to help him, and talking made the time pass for me, too.
“It starts with a kiss,” I said abruptly. There was a start from Con, and his chain clinked. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. “Things always start with a kiss. Or end with them. So this story is going to start with a kiss.” I could feel his eyes on me, open wide and yet comforting. He wasn’t some kind of monster, even if he was a vampire.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of Mel, of the tattoos and the utter normalcy of the kitchen at the coffeehouse. That helped to ground me a little. “Yes,” I continued. “This story starts with a kiss. The girl is a chef...”
“Not a baker?” Con asked, his voice laced with amusement.
“Hey! I’m the one telling the story here.” He laughed, and it was actually a nice sound to hear. “So yes, the chef is named Clara, and she had a boyfriend who was a magic user. He was heavy into magic, knew all sorts of spells, could do just about anything. His name was...” I trailed off and tried to think of a name that might be good. “Trevor,” I said finally. There was a Trevor that sometimes came to the coffee shop, though he was a plain and boring guy. No real change in his orders any of the times he came to the shop.
“So, Trevor is the magic user, and he made a bet with his buddies that he could kiss the chef. You see, his friends thought that there was no way in skegging hell that she would ever let it happen. Clara was always in the kitchen, always dreaming up new recipes and things and just never had the time for that kind of thing. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, you know? Sometimes they’re just more trouble than they’re worth.”
Con looked amused by that, and he leaned back against the wall in a lazy manner, as if we were just sitting there because we were friends and liked hanging out. “But she kisses him back, doesn’t she?” he rasped, his eyes on mine. “He kisses like he means it. Like she’s the only thing that matters to him in the entire universe, the only thing that makes him whole.”
Holy carpathagnian hell, Con’s voice rolled though me. It wasn’t that kind of vampire charm that they have, since that doesn’t do squat to me somehow. But it was a kind of charm that got my heart beating a little faster, the kind that would have me pushing down on the dress to show a little more skin to hear that voice again.
“Yeah,” I said finally, licking my lips. “She likes it, how he kisses. How he touches her, like she’s somebody special. She doesn’t think she’s special at all, just a chef. Just someone in the kitchen that cooks that people don’t really think about.”
“But she’s beautiful,” Con interrupts in a soft tone, and I swear my bones turned to water at the sound of it. “She’s the center of the universe, soft and beautiful and worthy of being worshipped with his mouth.”
I goggled at him, because I could almost feel his lips over mine, and my heart was beating so fast he had to hear it. “She’s never been worshipped before,” I squeaked. “Not like that.”
“She should be,” he said, shifting his position against the wall. He seemed coiled and ready to spring now, as if he would push his way down on top of me and show me how Trevor would kiss Clara, that he would show me exactly what he meant by worship. “She should be laid down on a bed of soft silk, lips over skin, fingertips brushing soft places. She should feel nothing but pleasure, should know that every moment is about making her body sing.”
Struggling to breathe, I licked my lips again. I was wet, nearly panting just from the sound of his voice. He was that good. “She’d want to feel that,” I said, voice ragged. I held the skirt around my knees tightly, almost wishing he could touch me. “She’d want to return the favor, touch him back. He’s handsome, even if he’s nothing she ever expected to want.”
His eyes flashed, and his hands were tight around his chains. “He wants to know what she tastes like. How her skin would feel, what her touch would be like. If she would want that, if she would wish it, he could do anything for her.”
“She wants it,” I said, and let my arms fall from my knees. I kept the edge of the skirt in my fists, feeling like I was sopping wet at this point. “More than anything, even if it seems impossible.” I dropped the pretense. “If I touched myself, it would be thinking it was you.” He let out a low sound, almost a growl, his hands clutching the chain in a white knuckled grip. “You know that, right? You can tell how much I want this, right? That I want you right here,” I drew my fingers across the bodice of the dress, where my breasts strained across the front. “And here,” I said, lifting the skirt. I let my legs fall open, and his gaze fell on me. It was hungry, and felt almost like a touch, almost like he could make me come just by looking at me.
He licked his lips, watching my every movement, straining against the chain. “Show me,” he rasped. “Show me what you would have me do.”
I slipped my fingers inside, slowly at first, almost shy. And then I moved faster, head falling back and eyes falling shut. My breath was harsh in my chest, and I thought of his eyes, that hungry look devouring me, what that tongue would be like on me, what that voice would sound like up against my ear as he urged me on. I clenched down tight around my fingers, imagining them to be his, and felt everything fall apart in a rush.
He was lying on the floor when I managed to open my eyes again, looking content. He smiled at me gently, traces of longing in his eyes. “Can you tell me the story of the kiss again?”
I laughed, and then started all over again.
Generic Disclaimer: These are NOT my characters, and they're all over the age of consent. And oh, look, they're all consenting, too. (The BSG one could be dubcon, tho...)
I apologize in advance for the smart quotes... The new version of Gdocs automatically turns them on and I can't turn them off. And it's a pain in the ass to change every single quote and apostrophe. I'm using the old version for future fics, not to worry. Anywho, oOn to the porn. :D
“Caramel.” Fringe, Walter Bishop/Astrid Farnsworth, taste
Astrid never knew what to expect going into the lab, and that was part of the fun with working in Fringe Division. She had studied a lot of different things, and knew people with various areas of expertise. Everyone had told her that she was wasting her time, but apparently, her voracious consumption of eclectic information had paid off.
Today, something was cooking over a bunsen burner. Walter often had odd things over a burner, and liked to put various concoctions together. His enjoyment of all drugs was probably part of his charm, even if sometimes he was completely off his rocker. Walter looked up as Astrid came into the lab and grinned. “Astro! Just the girl I wanted to see!”
“Astrid,” she said for the thousandth time. As always, her words slid right past Walter’s consciousness into some kind of ether. She took off her coat and gloves, then carefully unwound her scarf. Walter was bouncing around from one part of the lab bench to the other, carefully monitoring the concoction over the bunsen burner. “What are you making?”
“My own special blend of caramel.” Walter beamed at her as he pulled out a tray with dozens of tiny oddly shaped things on it. “Here. I thought you might like it, Aster. They’re sweet, but not too sweet. Just like you.”
He didn’t mean anything by it, of course. He couldn’t. He was just being Walter, and didn’t realize he was even complimenting her.
But his hand lingered over hers just a fraction too long as he was passing her the candy. His eyes lingered on her mouth and tongue as she tasted the candy, sweet with just a little bit of an edge to it. He looked almost anxious, waiting on her response to his efforts. “Does it taste good?” he asked, leaning in close. “I’d imagine it tastes like you. If you were a candy. But you’re not, Astrid, I know that,” he said hastily. Almost as if he had just realized he was standing too close, he returned to his bunsen burners. “I know things. I know a lot of things, and most of them even make sense, you know.”
Astrid reached out and touched his arm gently. “I know, Walter. You’re a good man.”
Something in his expression broke. “No, I’m not.” He turned away and took up one of his caramels. “But this! This is good. Sweet, but not too sweet. Not so saccharine that your teeth would rot, just the thing to chew on and suck on while you’re thinking. I like sucking on things,” he said absently, adjusting the flame beneath one bubbling beaker. “It’s calming.”
“Walter?” Astrid asked, coming closer. “Are you all right?”
He looked at her with a blank expression. “I like you, Astrid. I do. You’re a sweet girl. Rather like these caramels, don’t you think?”
Astrid closed her hand over Walters, and he squeezed her hand tightly. “And what kind of candy would you be? What taste would you have?”
He gave her a naughty grin. “Want to find out?”
Laughing, Astrid edged closer. Her heart was pounding; he couldn’t possibly mean it that way, could he? “Maybe I do.”
Their kiss was soft and tentative, more of an exploration to see if either of them meant to take this past subtle flirtation. When Astrid pulled back, Walter had a goofy grin on his face. “You do taste like caramel. I like that.”
“I don’t think I caught what you taste like,” she replied, a slow grin on her face. “Maybe I need to try again. You know, experiment a bit.”
“Oh. I like experimentation. You never know what the outcome is going to be.”
“Exactly.”
Hours later, Astrid decided that Walter tasted like dark chocolate.
“Along the Path.” Merlin, Lancelot/Morgana, skin, moonlight
Morgana wandered away from Morgause’s camp, wondeing if she had made a mistake. The forests were thick and quiet around her, the darkness settling into the sky as the moon was high and full overhead. The animals were all silent as she walked through the forest, which had to be a bad sign.
She was seized from behind, a dagger at her throat. Morgana could feel the magic rise within her, knew that there could be wind and fire and pain if she merely let the thought go. That would make her everything that Uther hated about magic, would make her the very thing that he was so very afraid of.
The breath at her ear was ragged, the hands holding her still like iron. “Give me your purse, and I’ll spare your life.”
The voice was familiar, and it took a moment for Morgana to place it. In her hesitation, his grip tightened on her arms, and the blade’s point pressed into her neck. It was just hard enough to make a drop of blood well to the surface. “Is this what they turned you into, Lancelot? You were a worthy knight for Arthur.”
He let her go, spinning her out and away from him. “What?” he hissed, reacting as if burned.
Morgana touched her hand to her neck, the blood smearing across her fingertips. In a flash of gold, it was gone and her wound was sealed. “I remember you,” she said, moving to lower the hood of her cloak. “I remember you very well.”
Lancelot saw her, his face ashen. “Lady Morgana.”
She gave a brisk shake of her head. “Just Morgana now. I’ve fled Camelot.” Her chin lifted a notch at his stunned surprise. “I’m an enemy of Camelot, just as you are.”
“I am not--”
“Aren’t you?” she challenged. “What would the knights do if they saw you like this? You know what they would do to a highwayman.”
Lancelot’s shoulders dropped, but Morgana had no pleasure in it. She approached him slowly; he was still armed, and she wasn’t stupid. The first thing she did was touch his hand, her eyes locked to his, and slowly took the dagger away from him. She held it out to him, holding the blade so that he could take it by the hilt. It was a sign of trust and respect, and she watched as Lancelot warily took the dagger back from her. “What do you want, Morgana?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. She had thought she wanted the downfall of Camelot. She had thought she hated Uther for his hypocrisy. She had thought she wanted a home to live in that would be without fear. She didn’t know what place that would be, however, and the realization left her cold and empty inside. Her dreams carried thousands of different possible futures, and they slipped through her fingers once she woke. She couldn’t choose one to follow, couldn’t ensure that she would even survive.
His eyes raked over her face as he sheathed his dagger. He touched the spot that had been bleeding at her throat. “I shouldn’t have done that, milady.”
“I’m no longer a lady of the court,” she reminded him.
“You will always be a lady,” Lancelot answered, his other hand moving her cloak aside. “Whether this be velvet or sacking, I know you will always be a fine woman. Just as I am always a servant.”
Morgana edged closer to him, a chill rolling through her limbs. “You are more than that. Servants are not always noble.”
“Nay, I’m no noble. If you knew my thoughts...” He shook his head ruefully and let his hands fall to his sides. “No, milady. I am no nobleman.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “It’s a good thing I don’t want a nobleman.”
The wonder in his gaze didn’t mask the open appreciation of her beauty. He had always cared for Gwen, but he knew a fair face when he saw it. Morgana didn’t need adoration. She needed to feel and she needed to belong, if only for a little while.
He pressed her against a tree, his mouth falling onto hers. One hand was at her hips, pulling them tight to his, the other was at the nape of her neck. Good God, the man could kiss like sin, his lips urging hers to part so his tongue could explore her mouth. Morgana wound her arms around his shoulders and opened her mouth wider beneath his. There was passion in his kiss, a heady fervor that was almost like worship. Lancelot moved to press his lips to her neck, and kissed a trail down to her bodice. His hands were at the laces, undoing them as best as he could to free her breasts. Once they were free, he suckled one and pulled lightly at the other, making Morgana gasp. It was pleasure and a fierce need that shot through her, a distinct feeling that there was more and she had to have it.
Lancelot lifted her skirts and moved to place his head between her thighs. He licked the skin above her silken stockings, then right to where the ache had settled between her legs. Morgana gasped at the feel of his mouth there, at the rush in her veins she had never felt before. She grasped her skirts as Lancelot moved to take hold of her hips for balance. He went to work in earnest, drawing out gasps and moans. Morgana felt like a coiled spring, as if he was winding her tight and tighter and tighter still. Her hips tilted of their own accord, and her back arched at a particularly sensitive lick against her center. Her breasts jutted out of her bodice into the cool night air, nipples taut and aching. When Lancelot slid a finger inside of her, it was enough to send her careening over an edge she hadn’t known existed. The coiling burst apart, and she cried out in ecstasy.
Lancelot rose from his knees, catching Morgana’s limp form. “Morgana,” he murmured, his body pressed to hers. “This is as far as I can go. You’re but a maiden.”
She lifted her head with difficulty and grasped hold of his shirt. “Then make me a woman.”
Against his better judgment, Lancelot unlaced her dress, letting it fall from her shoulders to puddle at her feet. The shift was next, so that she stood there clad in only the silken stockings at her legs and the garters to hold them up. Reverently, Lancelot removed them, his lips following the trails his fingers made. At her breathless request, Lancelot stripped his own clothing, leaving them both skyclad in the middle of the forest. He laid her down over her velvet cloak, showering her face with kisses and touching her everywhere. Just when she could stand it no longer, he positioned himself over her. “I should stop,” he said, almost begging her to say no.
Morgana pulled him down, muffling her cry of pain. “Don’t you dare,” she ordered in a strangled voice. “Give me everything. Spare me nothing.”
He moved over her and within her, long, deep strokes that stretched and filled her. It hurt in some places, not in others. It was over far too soon, and Morgana lay beneath Lancelot, looking up at the moon. He tried to apologize for her pain, but she wouldn’t have it. She held his hand tightly and kissed the rough knuckles. “This was a gift you gave me.” She smiled at his confused look. “I hadn’t thought this could be beautiful, but now I know it can be.” Morgana pressed a kiss to his lips. “I would be honored if you would stay with me.”
Even as he shook his head, Morgana had known he would not stay with her. He was trying to follow a path of redemption, however rocky the road and deviations in the path. She would have to find her own way.
“Stranger In The Mirror.” Battlestar Galactica (2003), Kara/Leoben, shame, force
He pushed her face down onto the bed he made her share. “Kara,” Leoben said, disappointment coloring his voice. “You know I always come back to you.” He was straddling her prone form, his hands over hers on either side of her head. “Or maybe this is how you like it? This is how you can tell yourself it’s rape? That you’re not asking for it? That you don’t beg me for it?” Leoben leaned down close to her ear, his breath warm and moist. Kara knew that he was a Cylon, that he was nothing more than a machine, but he always felt anything but metallic.
“Get off of me,” she ground out, eyes shut tight. She wanted to think of Sam or Lee or even Zach, but Gods knew it was hard to do. Leoben was right above her, pressed into her, and she was clad in thin fabric that was easy to rip off. He had done it before and would likely do so again.
Leoben licked the shell of her ear, then breathed over the damp spot. She shivered; it was one of her erogenous zones. He had thoroughly mapped them out soon after taking her to this Godsforsaken place. Kara used to boast she had no shame, but that had been easy on the Galactica. Starbuck wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
But here, she was just Kara. And Kara was frightened.
“Kara,” he crooned, lips by her ear. “We belong together. I’ve seen it, and you know it to be true. We belong together, you and I. It happened before, and it will again.” Leoben let go of her hands and trailed them along her arms. She shivered as his hands slipped beneath the thin shirt she was wearing. He lifted it toward her shoulders, and then bent his head to lick a trail along her spine. “I take care of you. I love you. I shelter you. I forgive you.” He pressed his lips along the base of her spine as she let out a choked sob. Leoben hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts and edged them down her hips. “Lift up, love.” Kara obeyed, eyes still shut tight. He slid them down her legs, his mouth pressing hot and open kisses along her bared backside. Then he placed his hands at her hips so that he could lick his way back up her spine.
“I hate you,” Kara said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I frakking hate you!”
Leoben pulled her up to a sitting position, then pulled off the shirt, baring her breasts. He leveled a serene gaze at her. “I love you and I forgive you, Kara. You’re just afraid of what fate has in store for you. I will never hurt you.”
She let out a strangled noise as he bent his head to her breast and began to suckle. Her hands tightened in his hair as he slowly laid her back down on the bed. He was lying between her spread thighs, his erection separated from her wet heat by only a pair of pants. Leoben moved from one breast to the other, one hand propping himself up and the other caressing her hip. Kara cursed herself for a fool when she grasped at his shoulders, when she canted her hips up toward his and moaned. She cried out when he slid his fingers inside her, as he brought her through several climaxes before stripping and sliding into her. Leoben locked eyes with her as he moved above her, reverence and love in his gaze.
Kara closed her eyes and turned away. Even as she cried out in pleasure, she could feel herself shrivel inside. She didn’t fight him when he touched her, and he never forced her to his bed. She always came willingly, always parted her legs for him even as she cursed his name and told him she hated him. He accepted that, forgiving her every time. She hated his forgiveness, hated his touch, hated that he knew her so well. And she hated herself even more. When he left, always forgiving her, she never cried. There weren’t any tears left to shed.
“Lessons Learned.” Beauty and the Beast, Disney!Beast/Disney!Belle, erotic novels
“You like books,” the Beast said accusingly.
Belle refused to rise to the bait. “I wasn’t expecting this!” He reached for the book, but was amused when she snatched it back. “I haven’t finished reading it yet!”
The Beast moved slowly and deliberately, crowding into her space. Belle’s lips parted slightly, the novel clutched to her chest like a talisman. “Did you like what you read?”
She shivered beneath his heady gaze. “I... I’ve never... Those things,” she squeaked, a fierce blush rising along her cheeks. “I want to know more.”
The Beast plucked the book easily from her limp grasp. With his other hand, he traced the delicate curve of her shoulder. “Some things, you can’t learn from books.”
“I... I learn quickly.”
Smiling, the Beast bent his head so that he could press his lips to her forehead. “Would you like me to teach you?”
Eyes dilated, Belle could only nod. He was careful as he kissed her, as he ran his monstrous hands along the curves of her body. She trembled in his arms, but it was not fear that sang in her veins. She was a passionate woman, sheltered and pure, his hope for redemption. Her scent was tantalizing, and she didn’t know how much restraint it took to keep from ripping the dress from her body and showing her just how Beastly he could be.
But he moved slowly, slowly, caressing her flesh with hands and lips and tongue. Belle cried out at the sensation, head thrown back against the library carpet, legs splayed wide before him. His mouth had descended over her, and he was giving her such heights of sensation that she had never known before. She dug her fingers into the fur at the back of his head, crying out and nearly sobbing incoherently. “Please,” she begged, not knowing what she was begging for. “Oh, Beast, please, please,” she moaned.
His eyes were shining with lust and longing. “This cannot be undone, Belle,” he warned. But she moaned and reached for him, and he plunged deeply within her. She cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain as he moved, but then his mouth covered hers. She could taste herself on his tongue, and opened her mouth wider for him. She held onto him, fingers tangled in his fur and her thighs trembling around his hips. He made deep strokes within her, causing her to cry out into his mouth when something felt so incredibly wonderful that she was seeing stars.
“Belle,” he moaned. “I cannot... last...”
“Oh, my Beast,” Belle whimpered, hands tightening on his arms. “My Beast.”
Her voice was enough to have him come undone, flying apart at the seams and coming within her hot depths. He carefully shifted position so that he cradled her in his arms, her lithe body still wound around his. “Belle,” he moaned. “My Belle.”
She tucked her head into his chest, still panting. “I still want to finish that book.”
The Beast laughed heartily. “I’ll show you how it ends,” he promised, running his hands down her back. “For as long as you wish me to.”
Belle smiled and burrowed into his warmth. “I wish it, Beast. I wish it very much.”
“A Kiss To Build A Dream On” Sunshine - Robin McKinley, Constantine/Sunshine, kiss
“Tell me a story,” Constantine rasped.
I was tired, my voice soft and almost hoarse from talking. “I told you everything already,” I said wearily. And I’ve told everything I knew. Fairy tales, book plots, TV shows, gossip I’d picked up at Charlie’s and even how I make the cinnamon rolls every morning. I mean, my life is boring. It’s not like a baker can do fantastic things, right? I bake.
“Make up something,” he asked. His voice was low, but I could tell he was pleading with me. He was staying out of the light as best as he could, and he had said that my talking kept him sane. I didn’t want to think about what he would be like if he wasn’t.
“I... I’m not good at stories,” I said finally. “I don’t tell stories. I bake. I can recite every recipe from the shop, or how there are hot spots in the oven, how to get the rolls to stay as fluffy as they do in time for the morning rush...”
He looked up at me, and though he didn’t say anything else, I could almost feel his despair. I wanted to help him, and talking made the time pass for me, too.
“It starts with a kiss,” I said abruptly. There was a start from Con, and his chain clinked. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. “Things always start with a kiss. Or end with them. So this story is going to start with a kiss.” I could feel his eyes on me, open wide and yet comforting. He wasn’t some kind of monster, even if he was a vampire.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of Mel, of the tattoos and the utter normalcy of the kitchen at the coffeehouse. That helped to ground me a little. “Yes,” I continued. “This story starts with a kiss. The girl is a chef...”
“Not a baker?” Con asked, his voice laced with amusement.
“Hey! I’m the one telling the story here.” He laughed, and it was actually a nice sound to hear. “So yes, the chef is named Clara, and she had a boyfriend who was a magic user. He was heavy into magic, knew all sorts of spells, could do just about anything. His name was...” I trailed off and tried to think of a name that might be good. “Trevor,” I said finally. There was a Trevor that sometimes came to the coffee shop, though he was a plain and boring guy. No real change in his orders any of the times he came to the shop.
“So, Trevor is the magic user, and he made a bet with his buddies that he could kiss the chef. You see, his friends thought that there was no way in skegging hell that she would ever let it happen. Clara was always in the kitchen, always dreaming up new recipes and things and just never had the time for that kind of thing. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, you know? Sometimes they’re just more trouble than they’re worth.”
Con looked amused by that, and he leaned back against the wall in a lazy manner, as if we were just sitting there because we were friends and liked hanging out. “But she kisses him back, doesn’t she?” he rasped, his eyes on mine. “He kisses like he means it. Like she’s the only thing that matters to him in the entire universe, the only thing that makes him whole.”
Holy carpathagnian hell, Con’s voice rolled though me. It wasn’t that kind of vampire charm that they have, since that doesn’t do squat to me somehow. But it was a kind of charm that got my heart beating a little faster, the kind that would have me pushing down on the dress to show a little more skin to hear that voice again.
“Yeah,” I said finally, licking my lips. “She likes it, how he kisses. How he touches her, like she’s somebody special. She doesn’t think she’s special at all, just a chef. Just someone in the kitchen that cooks that people don’t really think about.”
“But she’s beautiful,” Con interrupts in a soft tone, and I swear my bones turned to water at the sound of it. “She’s the center of the universe, soft and beautiful and worthy of being worshipped with his mouth.”
I goggled at him, because I could almost feel his lips over mine, and my heart was beating so fast he had to hear it. “She’s never been worshipped before,” I squeaked. “Not like that.”
“She should be,” he said, shifting his position against the wall. He seemed coiled and ready to spring now, as if he would push his way down on top of me and show me how Trevor would kiss Clara, that he would show me exactly what he meant by worship. “She should be laid down on a bed of soft silk, lips over skin, fingertips brushing soft places. She should feel nothing but pleasure, should know that every moment is about making her body sing.”
Struggling to breathe, I licked my lips again. I was wet, nearly panting just from the sound of his voice. He was that good. “She’d want to feel that,” I said, voice ragged. I held the skirt around my knees tightly, almost wishing he could touch me. “She’d want to return the favor, touch him back. He’s handsome, even if he’s nothing she ever expected to want.”
His eyes flashed, and his hands were tight around his chains. “He wants to know what she tastes like. How her skin would feel, what her touch would be like. If she would want that, if she would wish it, he could do anything for her.”
“She wants it,” I said, and let my arms fall from my knees. I kept the edge of the skirt in my fists, feeling like I was sopping wet at this point. “More than anything, even if it seems impossible.” I dropped the pretense. “If I touched myself, it would be thinking it was you.” He let out a low sound, almost a growl, his hands clutching the chain in a white knuckled grip. “You know that, right? You can tell how much I want this, right? That I want you right here,” I drew my fingers across the bodice of the dress, where my breasts strained across the front. “And here,” I said, lifting the skirt. I let my legs fall open, and his gaze fell on me. It was hungry, and felt almost like a touch, almost like he could make me come just by looking at me.
He licked his lips, watching my every movement, straining against the chain. “Show me,” he rasped. “Show me what you would have me do.”
I slipped my fingers inside, slowly at first, almost shy. And then I moved faster, head falling back and eyes falling shut. My breath was harsh in my chest, and I thought of his eyes, that hungry look devouring me, what that tongue would be like on me, what that voice would sound like up against my ear as he urged me on. I clenched down tight around my fingers, imagining them to be his, and felt everything fall apart in a rush.
He was lying on the floor when I managed to open my eyes again, looking content. He smiled at me gently, traces of longing in his eyes. “Can you tell me the story of the kiss again?”
I laughed, and then started all over again.